


The Hands that Give

by boltlightning



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Idiots in Love, Retelling, it's part 2 of the game but with more scenes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-04
Updated: 2019-10-04
Packaged: 2020-11-23 04:00:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 16,643
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20885765
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/boltlightning/pseuds/boltlightning
Summary: Fódlan burns, and Byleth fights a war of many things.(a series of conversations, featuring f!Byleth. major spoilers within!)





	1. watchtower

The sound of water sloshing around her nudges Byleth awake. An unfamiliar, worried face peers over her, extending a hand.

"H-hey, are you awake?" he asks, panicked. "You just...washed up the river!"

The man helps her to her feet. For a moment, she tries to get her bearings, though she is soaked in water and the air is _freezing. _Up the mountain, she can see the spire of Garreg Mach, still standing. "I have to get to the monastery," she says through her chattering teeth. Carefully, she pulls herself to her feet, but is surprised to feel that she is not in pain. Hadn't she fallen off a cliff? Shouldn't that _hurt _more? What had Sothis done? "Excuse me."

"The monastery has been abandoned for five years," the man says, following as she tries to exit the small village. "The Church of Seiros isn’t there anymore, though there have been some folks still living there since…well, you know.” He trails off awkwardly. “A-Anyway, there's no one up there besides bandits and thieves."

_Five years? _Five years since what? "What year is it?" she asks, breathless. Fear seizes her chest.

"It's 1185, end of Ethereal Moon." The man is pale and wrings his hands nervously. "Are you sure you are okay? You didn’t hit your head on anything?"

Byleth recalls everything she can as quickly as possible. The Empire had attacked the monastery. It was now the year of the millennium festival, but the Church of Seiros had been driven out. Her students...What had become of them? Sothis had kept her safe and alive for five years, and she had experienced none of it. It is too overwhelming to process now in front of this stranger, the shadow of the monastery looming over them. 

Byleth keeps her face neutral. "I just need a dry cloak before I go up the mountain," she says matter-of-factly. "This one won't do."

The villager leads her to the nearest general store, attempting to dissuade her in her quest. He tells her about the bandits in the area recently, about rumors of a recent Imperial scouting party who had been viciously slaughtered by some mysterious murderer in the monastery just the other day. He gets his point across — it’s dangerous up there, clearly — but Byleth cannot be stopped in her quest. The confused store clerk rushes to get her a cloak lined in fur, in the simple style of Faerghus commoners. She dumps a handful of gold on the counter, shivering too hard to count the pieces, and leaves her old cloak in a bush outside the store. 

On the path to the monastery, she reaffixes her Blue Lion brooch to her new attire. Her hair had grown long and untamed; she uses a knife to cut it to a manageable length and ties the rest back with a ribbon. The one benefit to the abandoned monastery was that it would be private, so she could examine the changes to her body from five years in stasis in solitude. 

Refuse from the years she had missed is piled up on the pathway up the mountain, and it only grows higher the closer she comes to the gates. Tattered flags are strewn about the battlefield; rusted weapons and remnants of Adrestian siege artillery slowly crumble to the demands of time. Byleth begins to put together the pieces.

_I have missed five years of war, _she says to herself. She remembered being thrown off the monastery's mountains, descending into the canyon below with nothing to break her fall but jagged rocks. It was a certain death, but she was alive nonetheless. What would she find in the monastery after all these years? The bodies of those she had loved? Or would they be scattered about the continent, forced into hiding and rebellion while the Empire took what it pleased? She holds her breath as she steps through the monastery threshold, its gates smashed to pieces that lie before her. Silence greets her, the dense, thick silence of an abandoned battlefield.

As she gets further into the monastery, she finds corpses littering the ground, killed not a day ago. While the casualties from the Battle of Garreg Mach had long since been buried, these have been left to the crows. As she passes them, she sees their uniforms bear the unmistakable red trim of the Empire. The villager’s rumor is true — _someone _had slaughtered these men, with the brutal, precise slashes of a trained swordsman. Byleth follows the carnage out of bile curiosity.

In the nearby hall, the silence is broken only by soft, ragged breathing in one of the watchtowers. Cautiously, Byleth heads up the stairs, hand on the hilt of her sword. Slumped against the wall in the dim light of the morning, leaning on a silver lance, is a dark-armored figure. Byleth inhales sharply as she realizes who it is.

Prince Dimitri Blaiddyd looks up at her through long, unkempt hair with his one remaining eye; an eyepatch covers the other. He has been through hell, by the looks of it: his fine features are gaunt and pale, and the shadows under his eye dark. Grime and blood spatter his face and armor, no doubt from his recent conflict with the Imperial troops. He shifts only slightly at her appearance, inhaling a slow, deep breath.

She offers a hand to him. He glances at it and quickly turns away, 

"I should have known," he says, voice hoarse, "that you would come to haunt me, too."

The prince hauls himself to his feet. He has grown since she last saw him, his shadow dwarfing her as he turns to face the window. “You...what must I do to be rid of you? I’ll kill that woman, I swear it.” He speaks low in his throat, his posture defensive and feral. Though there is no one else in the tower, Byleth has a feeling he is not talking to her. “Do not look at me with that _scorn _in your eyes.”

The dread and worry settle in Byleth’s gut like snowfall. Briefly, she remembers how Dimitri was in that fortnight leading to the Empire’s initial attack on Garreg Mach. He had simmered with hatred, been blinded by his own ideas of revenge, and it seems as though these last few years had done nothing but fuel his wrath. “What are you talking about?” she whispers.

Slowly, menacingly, he turns to glare at her. Backlit by the pale sun of dawn, he looks half a ghost. “You…” Realization floods his face, as though he is just seeing her. “It can’t be! You’re alive?”

“I’m alive.” She hesitates with each syllable. Her hand darts back towards her sword, and she hates that that is her first instinct.

“If that is the case...you must be another Imperial spy. Did you come here to kill me?” He glances at her swordhand, hovering by her sheath; she had not been subtle enough to evade his scrutiny. “Answer the question.”

“Of course not.” She cannot keep the hurt from her voice. 

Dimitri seems to deem her safe and lowers his weapon. He gives her another dark, suspicious glance, but does not continue his line of questioning. Hope flickers briefly in Byleth’s heart — any small amount of trust she could win with this ghostly Dimitri was a victory. He stalks past her back into the monastery and does not turn to see if she follows.

“I’m glad you’re safe,” Byleth calls after him, her voice thin. 

It is enough to make Dimitri pause. He turns his head slightly and clenches his jaw. “Am I?”


	2. courtyard

The monastery is a mess. 

There is ruination at every turn, the Imperial army's last gift to the church. While the areas deep into the campus have seen the least damage, it is difficult to avoid what had been done to the monastery. The broken spire of the cathedral looms over the grounds. Scorch marks of fires long extinguished blaze along the battlements. Rubble blocks every path, and the gardens are overgrown with vines and weeds. The Blue Lions grit their teeth and set to work.

Gilbert and Seteth re-emerge at Garreg Mach within a few days of Byleth's reappearance. For the last five years, Gilbert had tracked Dimitri's trail of blood across Fódlan, and Seteth had traveled with the Knights of Seiros to ensure order among the Church’s remaining clergy. Their presence is a great relief to Byleth. The fledgling army is in desperate need of supplies, of comrades, of some semblance of order — all of which are things that the two veterans are skilled in organizing and procuring. Byleth thanks them every day.

She is grateful to have her class around her as well. It would be so, so easy to fall into despair with just the prince as companionship, but the others keep her steady on her feet. Despite the stalemate with the Empire in Fraldarius and Gautier, despite the chokehold on Fhirdiad, despite the destruction and siege of so many Kingdom territories, they had come to the monastery without even knowing if Byleth was _alive. _They had traveled together to fulfill the promise they made her the night before the ball five years ago. And they had saved her and Dimitri from the den of bandits that would have surely overtaken them. Days later, Byleth is still overwhelmed by their loyalty.

"Well," Mercedes had explained calmly, as though it were the simplest thing in the world, "we made a promise! We had faith that if we showed up, you would too."

They had put their faith in Byleth. It only made sense that she put her faith in them, as well. 

And then there is Dimitri. Byleth maintains her distance — it is clear he will not help organize the war efforts, even if the army rallies behind his name and title — and watches him from afar. He had returned on the day of their promise, too. Was he already in the area, and it was sheer coincidence he picked this time of year to make camp in the monastery? Or did he remember as well, believing somewhere deep in his gut that his friends would return?

In either case, they had picked a poor stronghold to form their rebellion, sentiment aside. Garreg Mach is a fortress easy to defend, but they are trapped. To their south are Varley and Bergleiz, to their east Gloucester — all territories pledging their support to the Empire. Their backs are against the Oghma Mountains, separating them from direct lines of support from the Kingdom territories. So when a substantial army is spotted heading for the monastery, lead by a decorated Imperial general, the former professor is not surprised. Rumors of Dimitri’s brutality against Imperial soldiers had let them straight to their doorstep. 

Byleth fights a war of many things. This is a war of rationing, fighting to obtain the resources demanded by their army in wartime. This is a war of subterfuge, as they will have to operate largely in secret to avoid the all-seeing eyes of the Emperor. This is a war of faith — could their morale outlast the Empire's? — and it is a war of emotion. They will face their former colleagues on the battlefield soon enough, Byleth is certain. And she does not know she has the steel nerves to cut them down.

When the Empire attacks, they play the defensive once again. As she dons her armor, Byleth can agree with Dimitri on one thing: she is tired of fighting them off. She wants to advance. She wants this war to end swiftly. But this is a war of many things, and she will take them one at a time.

* * *

Tied up, bleeding, prone on the ground, the Imperial general looks up at Dimitri with wild eyes. “Please, I have family waiting for me! I can’t die here…”

Dimitri laughs without humor, a wicked smirk on his face. “A beast of your depravity, prattling on about your family? How amusing.”

“As though you could understand such a thing as love, you heartless _monster!_”The general spits at his feet. The stink of death in the air is thick, and the fires of Seteth’s trap smolder behind them — yet the general continues to argue. Byleth’s heart is tight in her chest as she watches the scene unfold.

Dimitri is nonplussed. “You are a monster too, General. You must have killed countless souls without a shred of mercy. Do you still remember the sounds of them begging, just as you are begging now?” He leans back on his heels and regards the general coldly. “Or now that your life is at its end, will you hold to the lie that your hands are not stained red with blood?”

Frustration and desperation color the general’s face. “This...this is war! I did what I had to do for the Empire, for the people...for my family!”

“So you are piling up corpses for the people and for your family,” he repeats, his voice dripping with mockery. “I am doing the same for the salvation of the dead…” Ominously, Dimitri steps closer, his hand on his sword. “After all is said and done, we are both murderers. Both stained. Both monsters.” 

“You’re wrong!” the general shouts, and scrambles back as best he can. He gasps at the effort, his wounds aggravated.

“Am I?” The delusional prince’s voice sends chills down Byleth’s spine. “I can smell the rotting flesh on your hands even now, General.”

“Enough! That’s enough!”

“I won’t kill you right away, my fellow monster,” Dimitri purrs, his voice suddenly low. “Unless you object to watching your friends die, one...by...one.” He punctuates the words by releasing the latch on his sword sheath, drawing his blade partly out. The steel hisses as it scrapes the sides of the scabbard. Businesslike, he continues, “If so, I will do you the service of removing your eyes first, so that—”

Byleth has had enough. Moving swiftly, she places a hand over Dimitri’s and draws his sword out herself. He is caught off guard, and is too surprised to stop her as she steps between him and the Imperial general.

“I’m sorry,” she says quietly, and kills him quickly. They do not have the resources to take prisoners, and he was on death’s door as it were. He dies crying a name Byleth doesn’t recognize. She closes the general’s eyes and says a quick prayer to Sothis; the goddess would treat the dead well, even if Dimitri did not. 

When she turns to face the prince, he is scowling at her, his eye narrowed to a slit. “What is the meaning of this?” he snarls, stepping towards her. 

Byleth drops his sword on the cobblestone and inhales sharply. She does all she can to steel herself for a hard conversation with a man who wouldn’t listen. “I couldn’t bear to watch you continue.”

“This is what I _am _now. I am a blood-stained, repulsive monster, just as he was.” He comes so close they are almost nose-to-nose despite their height difference, his angry breath billowing out as clouds. She does not flinch, even if every ounce of sense in her being screams at her to back off. “If you do not approve of what I have become, then kill me.” 

At the Officers’ Academy, Dimitri had been her closest ally. His eyes were filled with bright intellect and curiosity, though it was clear he was still aching from the tragedy in Duscur. The brightness is gone now, replaced with the low embers of anger. _The boar was always waiting there, beneath his royal manner, _she realizes all at once. _He is hurt. And he is looking for a way out._

Fearlessly, she meets his gaze. Her discomfort has boiled off, replaced with agonizing frustration. Tears prick at the corners of her eyes, but she is not certain whether they are angry or grieving. Perhaps they are both. 

“If you insist you cannot,” he continues cruelly, his voice dripping with malice, “then I will continue to use you and your friends until the flesh falls from your bones.”

He is gone, so far gone she cannot see an end where he returns to them. 

“You will do no such thing,” she snaps back. “The people in that monastery — they are fighting for you. I am following you because I blindly, _stupidly _believe that there is a glimmer of compassion left in you. I will walk by your side. I will even tolerate such threats from you. But by the goddess, if you endanger anyone in this army with your recklessness again, I will take you up on that offer. I will kill you where you stand. And I will grant you the mercy you feel that others do not deserve.”

Dimitri meets her eyes unflinchingly. Desperately, she looks for any hint of his old compassion, any hint of remorse or guilt that would bring him back from the brink on which he balanced. But instead, he growls low in his throat and says simply, “Then know this: if you stand in my way, I will strike you down.” 

The prince gives her one final, scathing look and sweeps away, back up the steps to the destroyed monastery. He leaves his sword in the dirt where she had left it. 

Byleth takes a few deep breaths to compose herself, then follows in his wake.


	3. marching orders

Before they march, they clean up Garreg Mach.

Dimitri had impatiently insisted that restoring the monastery was a waste of time, but it is the army’s stronghold for the moment. The Knights of Seiros, returning clergy, and villagers coming to the monastery for safety all pitch in to make the space more livable, more like the home it once was.

Byleth takes the responsibility of the greenhouse upon herself. In the Battle of Garreg Mach, a stray boulder fired from a trebuchet had smashed a hole in the ceiling. The rain from five years had kept many of the plants alive — even Dedue’s Duscuran plants had survived, tucked in their lonely corner away from stray moisture. But the gardens have grown unruly and sprawling, competing for both sunlight and space. Carefully, bittersweetly, Byleth begins the arduous process of weeding and restoring the flora. 

Ashe keeps her company every so often, but when he is out on patrol, the professor enjoys her solitude. Working with her hands, cultivating the plants, clearing the rubble — it is labor-intensive, and it is difficult, but it feels _good _to do something that produces results. Slowly, Byleth ensures the greenhouse returns to its tranquil, flourishing self.

The winter herbs are in bloom. She is just tending to the mint when Annette and Mercedes sweep in, carrying a basket. Steam seeps from the wicker and carries the heavenly smell of fresh sweets to Byleth’s nose.

“Professor!” Annette greets cheerfully. Her cheeks are flushed from the cold. 

Byleth calmly removes her gardening gloves and brushes the soil from her clothes. Breakfast seems so long ago; her stomach, the traitorous thing, urges her to inquire after their goods. “Good afternoon. What brings you two to the greenhouse?”

“It has been so long since the gardens were in a state for tea parties,” Mercedes says. “I bought some sugar and butter from the visiting merchant specially to make these treats. I thought you might like to join us!”

There is nothing but earnestness in their request. Byleth is smeared with dirt and reeks of sweat from the labor, neither of which are exactly suitable for tea parties, but that has never bothered her before.“Why don’t we enjoy those here? It is chilly in the gardens, but warm in here.” She gestures to the herbs. “And the chamomile is bloomed and ready to make tea. I can brew it.”

Annette’s eyes light up. “You were always the best at brewing! I can learn a thing or two from you about it while we eat.”

They retrieve a kettle of boiling water and a tablecloth from the dining hall and settle in for their impromptu picnic. A light snowfall has begun, nothing more than a dusting, but it turns the atmosphere by the pond magical. Byleth’s two companions quickly take to conversation, and she is content to listen, carefully steeping the tea. The sweet, bright smell wafts through the greenhouse and blends with the earthy smell of soil. 

Byleth closes her eyes. For a second, there is no war outside of these walls — there is only the hot ceramic of her teacup in her hands, the soothing chatter of her friends’ voices, and the aroma of hard work paid off.

“Are you alright, Professor?” Annette asks. Byleth starts from her reverie to find her and Mercedes looking to her, expectant. There is worry in the crease of Annette’s brow.

She is suddenly embarrassed again, and looks to her teacup. “I’m sorry, I must be tired.”

“Well, didn’t you say you’d been sleeping for the last five years?” Mercedes asks. Her voice is innocent enough, but her eyes gleam with playfulness. “You should be well-rested, should you not?”

“Mercie! She spent the morning cleaning out the greenhouse. Anyone would–”

“She’s got a point,” Byleth interrupts. “I have slept enough for the entire army, I think.”

Mercedes laughs, music in the echoing acoustics of the greenhouse. Though she still looks affronted, Annette smiles weakly and leans back against the wall. “Well, if you’re sure you’re okay, Professor,” she concedes. “We can let you be if you want us to leave.”

“No, no,” Byleth dismisses, waving her hand. “Tell me more about Fhirdiad. What was it like when you were at the sorcery school? And how do I measure up to those professors?” 

The two friends oblige her, speaking cheerfully about their old school days. Byleth allows the tension to ease from her shoulders as she sips at her tea. It would do her no use to run herself ragged, and she makes a mental note to ask the girls to tea more often.

* * *

They march east, to Ailell. 

The company makes camp on a river in Galatea. They enjoy the cold weather while they can before entering the Valley of Torment, and tread lightly as they prepare to cross the border into Alliance territory. By the shore of the river, Felix sharpens the blade of his rapier, whetstone scraping in rhythm along the steel. 

Byleth approaches with two dulled practice longswords. Silently, she flips one around and offers him the hilt; without hesitation, he stands to accept, his eyes alight. They set to sparring without preamble. 

In the years since the war started, Felix has spent his time honing his skills. He is faster, his technique cleaner. Gone is his desire to always strike first and come out on top — he is more strategic, more efficient in his slashes and parries. Byleth can keep up, but she is still recovering from her long slumber. His footwork is better than hers, that is for sure, even if her strategy and training were more comprehensive. The loamy sand beneath them certainly does not help her sluggishness.

Felix leaves himself open as he doubles back to consider his spacing, using the length of their blades to keep her from getting close. He moves just too slowly, positions his sword arm just right for her to strike at his ribs. She lunges, pushing forward with her full strength.

She meets his eyes, wide with surprise, just before she swings.

_Why are we fighting? _a voice in the back of her head says. _I will fight enough students in the war to come; why do I want to fight him?_

And a secondary voice, cold and detached as the wind, repeats itself: _If you stand in my way, I will strike you down._

Byleth hesitates and lands poorly, losing her momentum. Never missing a beat, Felix easily parries her and uses the flat of his blade to shove her aside. She stumbles backwards, balance lost, and falls on her back in the sand.

“Losing your touch, Professor?” Felix stands over her and smirks, resting his sword on his shoulder. “What have you been doing these last five years?”

When she does not answer, only drops her sword and drapes an arm over her eyes, Felix hesitates. A few moments pass before she hears him set down his own weapon and sit next to her, crossing his legs neatly beneath him. “Byleth. This isn’t like you.”

“I know. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologize.” 

The silence that follows is strange and awkward, like the pit of a sour cherry turning warm in your mouth. Sparring had never been anything difficult for her to stomach before, particularly not with Felix — why is it so hard now? Why does she feel tears at her eyes, hot and embarrassing with just the threat of their presence? After a moment, she sighs, moving her arm from her eyes.

“You were right, Felix,” she says finally.

“About?” 

“The boar.”

Byleth looks sideways at him from where she lies in the dirt. He is leaned back on his palms, lips pressed together, jaw rigid. “He had to show his true nature sooner or later.”

“I can’t imagine how you must feel. I only knew him at the academy for that fateful year, before the war broke out and..._this _happened to him. You were his childhood friend, and none of us listened to you that whole time.”

His frown is immediate. “I take no pleasure in being correct, if that’s what you’re implying.”

“Not at all.” Byleth sits up, wiping at her eyes. The last person she wants to cry in front of is Felix; while he is kinder than most would assume, he is still prickly and distant. To his credit, the young Fraldarius pretends not to see, or at least has the grace not to comment. “I just mean...you had to carry the weight of that knowledge for so long. I only saw the tusks of the boar for a moment in the Remire mission, and back in the Holy Tomb with the Flame E—Edelgard. And it was terrifying.”

Byleth pushes her hair from her face. Felix is inspecting the ground, his brow furrowed. Slowly, she continues, “He is to be your king, and there was no one who saw what he was going through but you. I admit, Felix, I...I’m afraid.”

“Of him?” he asks, incredulous.

“Not of him. I could take him in a fight.” She curls her hand into a fist, which grants her a small smirk from the stoic swordsman. She considers it a victory. “I am afraid at this point, there is no going back. That he’s more boar than man, and there is no way to pull him from the path he is on.”

Felix tilts his head in thought. He seems to roll his words around in his mouth before saying, “Well. If there is anyone who can reign in a wild boar, it’s you. But it is no simple task, and I don’t envy you for it.”

“No,” she murmurs, “I don’t envy me, either.” _If you stand in my way, I will strike you down, _the prince says again in her head, over and over.

Felix stands suddenly, picking up his practice sword. He gestures vaguely with it at her own weapon, then offers his hand. “Get up. You still owe me a fair match. You’re getting sloppy, and I won’t stand for it.” 

“It looks like you’re standing for it,” she says from the ground, keeping her face neutral. 

At his scowl, she laughs. Byleth takes his hand, and his strong grip pulls her back to her feet.

* * *

They march south, to Myrddin. 

So much has changed in five years, Byleth learns. Her students are grown, and they have seen so many of the world’s horrors in such a short time — but what strikes her is how much has stayed the same.

As they march, Ashe trots up to keep pace alongside Byleth, and offers a fistful of jerky. “Pan does tricks!” the archer announces, and points skyward. Pan, Ashe’s wyvern, does loops around Ingrid and her battalion of pegasus riders as they patrol above. Even at a distance, Byleth hears Ingrid’s laughter and the soft, alien chattering of the wyvern. He does another lap around the squadron and lands with a surprising amount of grace beside his rider, sniffling at his pockets. 

The beast is so much bigger up close, but there is no fear in Byleth’s heart. She offers the jerky; Pan investigates the treats suspiciously, then slowly flicks his long tongue out to accept them. The air blowing from his snout is hot like fire, his tongue sandpaper on her skin as he laps up its treat. Content, he nuzzles Ashe and takes to the skies again, his powerful wings blowing Byleth’s hair and cloak back with the force of a hurricane.

Byleth, impressed, watches the wyvern as he circles lazily above. “I meant to ask about him earlier — you made a new friend in the last few years.” 

“A lot has changed,” Ashe admits, with an embarrassed smile. “I actually wanted to talk to you about something, Professor, not just Pan...about all the things that have changed."

Ashe tells her about his dreams, what he had learned during the war. He had always wanted to be a knight, but he expresses a firm desire to _help_people above all else, with all the means at his disposal. Some would call it naïve, but his heart is good and his ambition unwavering. Byleth cannot fight away a glowing smile. The world is at war, and is far too scarce of souls like his.

“So, what about you Professor?” he asks, his thumbs tucked into his pockets. “Has anything been troubling you lately? I’d be happy to help!”

Her smile wavers. Goddess, what a question_. _What _isn’t _troubling her? A delusional prince, following his war path like a hound tracking a scent. An army that is growing too quickly for their resources to replenish. A continent burning, the church in shambles, Lady Rhea missing. Where can she start? A vague non-answer is on the tip of her tongue when she is interrupted by a pegasus swooping to land by her side.

Ingrid dismounts with a wave, pushing the hair from her face. “Ashe! The troops were impressed!”

“With what?” Ashe blinks, startled.

“Your wyvern’s tricks! Our pegasi are young ones, new to the fray; some of the soldiers were wondering if you could show them some maneuvers.” Ingrid’s face is flushed from her ride, and there is excitement in her tone. She and Ashe had always made a pair — both shared knightly ambition and a reverence for the legends. _Just as they always have, _Byleth thinks fondly.

Ashe is already whistling for Pan to return to the ground when Ingrid notices Byleth is standing there. “Oh! Professor, I apologize. I didn’t mean to interrupt.” 

“Not at all,” Byleth replies politely, waving her off. “I’m afraid I have no experience flying...I’ll defer to the experts.”

“Professor! We are far from experts,” Ashe interjects awkwardly. He scratches the back of his neck. “Besides, you have taught us so much already. Just enjoy the show!”

She watches them take off, the wind becoming their road. It is a cliche, as many things in Byleth’s life often felt like, but there are things that never change: Ashe’s golden heart, Ingrid’s galant chivalry, and their enthusiasm for self-improvement. 

Claude had said it best — the world doesn’t stop moving around you. And it is comforting to know that there are constants in spite of it.

* * *

They march across the bridge, to Gronder. The war drags on, and cracks begin to show in Dimitri’s armor.

Rodrigue and his troops join their cause, and they are a balm to the army’s morale. Amiable, level-headed, and humble, the Shield of Faerghus makes a point to mingle with Church and Kingdom loyalists alike, and the mood lifts immensely. Supplies, improved rations, and camaraderie do much to turn the attitude regarding the Kingdom’s position in the war. After Lambert’s death, Rodrigue had served as something like a second father to Dimitri, and his presence alone makes the prince more talkative in war councils. 

Along with his good humor, Rodrigue brings the legendary lance Areadbhar, the Hero’s Relic of House Blaiddyd. Even Felix, as much as he begrudges his father, had admitted that stealing back such an important royal relic out from under Cornelia’s watch was no simple feat. The lance is a terrifying thing, a glowing glaive taller than its wielder, but Dimitri is never seen without it by his side. It was his father’s lance, and his father’s before him, all the way back to the King of Lions himself.

They take the Bridge of Myrddin. Good timing, decisive troop movements, and sheer luck grant them victory over the Imperial fortress. They face the most loyal, elite troops yet. Many willingly fought to protect their generals, throwing themselves in the way of Areadbhar’s deadly reach in a last attempt to protect the bridge. The Kingdom had nearly been pincered, trapped between General Ladislava’s beasts, Gloucester troops, and Lord Acheron’s reinforcements — but _Dedue _had arrived with a Duscur cavalry. Their old ally, riddled in scars, had been key in protecting their soldiers from Acheron’s assault.

For the first time in a long time, Byleth had seen genuine _relief _in Dimitri’s expression. Prince and vassal had exchanged words briefly before throwing themselves into battle, back to back, like nothing had changed.

But when Byleth finds Dimitri after the battle, cleaning gore off his lance with his cloak, his mood is sour once more.

“Idiots,” he mumbles. “Embracing death for the sake of that woman. Truly foolish…”

He looks passively over the bridge, where troops are busily preparing the fortress for occupation. Deep in thought, his lance hangs loosely from his grip. It is not unusual to find him thinking deeply, but this is a different kind of pondering. He is uneasy, his jaw tight.

“What troubles you?” Byleth asks gingerly. It is a question she asks him often, when he is prone to his secretive, brooding silences. She braces herself for some snapped comment, some angry rebuttal about the demands of the dead. But the prince simply shifts his lance and regards her evenly, frowning.

“I...I don’t know.”

She takes a guess. “Do you regret killing them? These generals and lieutenants?”

“Those were just beasts with human faces. I had no choice but to kill them, and so I did.” But his expression does not settle back into its neutral state, and his gaze sweeps over the bridge to the rose-colored river. His voice is uncertain. “That...that is all there is to it.”

Rodrigue picks that moment to call them back to discuss their next course of action, and Byleth loses her chance to ask the prince more.

They are busy with discussions well into the night, and it isn’t until they march two mornings later that Byleth has a chance to speak with Dedue. Dimitri walks at the front of the army, flanked by Rodrigue and Gilbert; and easily, almost perfectly, Dedue resumes his role as the stalwart protector. He follows a few paces back from His Highness while Ashe eagerly catches him up on what he had missed. 

“Professor,” he greets with a nod. Ashe grins, flushed, and salutes at her appearance. Byleth returns the gesture.

“It is good to see you, Dedue,” she murmurs. She falls in step with them. “We had all thought…”

His green eyes, normally so dark, are pale in light of dawn. With a soft sigh, he says, “I know. I apologize for any stress I may have caused you all.”

Byleth cannot help it; she laughs, a snort that she covers up quickly with her hand. This man, a man of Duscur, a retainer to the crown prince of Faerghus, a person who had survived so much hardship — he was still so _polite_, so unfailingly determined to make the lives of people around him easier. He had saved them on the bridge and fought against death itself to return to his liege, yet still felt the need to apologize. 

“...Have I said something funny, Professor?”

Goddess, she had missed him. “No, Dedue,” she says honestly. “You need not apologize for anything. I — _we _are all just so glad to have you back. Tell me about your last five years, if you don’t mind. I hope you have not suffered too much to be here with us again.”

As Dedue tells his tale, taciturn and direct as always, Byleth notices that Dimitri keeps his head turned just slightly to listen. There are cracks in his armor now, and they are apparent. If Areadbhar and Rodrigue are cracks in his breastplate, then Dedue’s reappearance had split his helmet in two. 

Byleth had told Felix that she did not see an end to Dimitri’s path that ended well, but things had changed. The war, this war of many things, had changed. The prince’s circumstances had changed. And there is perhaps space in his heart for him to hear her out, finally, so she might be able to reach him beyond this barrier he had put up around himself. 

As they march towards Gronder Field, preparing to engage with forces led by Edelgard herself, Byleth feels the anticipation in the air as thick as rain. It will be a decisive battle. She does all she can to brace the army.


	4. gronder field

Gronder Field burns.

The Imperial mages scorch the landscape, setting the strategic location on the central hill aflame. The grass catches fire quickly in the dry winter weather, and spreads recklessly. Above the wreckage, Alliance, Kingdom, and Empire banners signal their positions, waving feebly in the winds of wildfire.

The Kingdom forces are smaller by far than their opponents, Byleth notes, as they blaze their path through the chaos. Above, Claude von Riegan circles the battlefield astride his swift white wyvern, arrows flashing, bow creaking and springing in rhythm. Emperor Edelgard von Hresvelg, in heavy battle regalia, holds the only fortress in the region, cutting down any who dare to come close.

She stops all but Dimitri, who carves a path through the enemy troops like they are waves of grain waiting to be reaped.

Edelgard and Dimitri clash with ferocity. Even at a distance, Byleth can hear his snarls and the _clang clang clang _of Areadbhar against her armor, of Edelgard’s axe against his steel. Their weapons spit sparks with every collision, their footsteps dancing a furious tempo around Edelgard’s small fortress. 

The battle is chaos, even as the Imperial troops take the brunt of blows from the Kingdom, until someone shoots Claude out of the sky. He careens to the ground with a lack of grace that makes Byleth’s stomach twist. Another wyvern rider helps his mount escape, and Leonie frantically pulls the Alliance’s wounded Grand Duke onto her horse’s withers. Alliance troops retreat, but if it is by order or from sheer fear, Byleth does not know — she is too far away from the center hill to make much sense of what is happening. 

Edelgard sounds the retreat not long after. Clutching her wounds, she gives Dimitri one last look before she is whisked away by some magic. Someone in the distance sounds a horn of retreat that sends the Imperial vanguard scattering. Unwilling to let go, desperate with anger, Dimitri turns menacingly back towards where Rodrigue commands the troops.

“I will keep pursuing! The rest of you, keep fighting!” he roars back at the field. Rodrigue blocks the prince’s path with his steed, and they have a heated discussion at a lower volume. Over the hills behind them, Imperial troops turn the horizon black, the flags red streaks against the burning sky. Byleth feels her heart sink at the sight of the reinforcements.

“We need to retreat,” Felix warns, jogging up behind her. He is breathless, sluggish, and smeared with grime — but he is _alive. _With the quick movements of a trained warrior, Felix unwraps the protective cloths around his hands and rewraps them tighter. His knuckles are bleeding, his skin cracked; the fire has eaten the moisture in the air, and they have all suffered for it. With a huff, he reaches to draw his sword again. “There are too many, even for a wild boar.”

They both look to Dimitri as he is mentioned. There is a lull in the battle as the Imperial troops back up to meet with their reinforcements, and a single Kingdom soldier runs onto the field from where they had made camp that morning. Byleth, unease in her gut and smoke in her throat, trots to intercept the soldier.

It is the girl, the girl they rescued on the bridge. Rodrigue shouts a warning to her, but it is too late; she draws a shortsword and stabs the blade between the plates of Dimitri’s armor, piercing his side from behind. He drops to his knees as she lifts the sword to stab again.

“Your Highness! _Dimitri!_” Rodrigue scrambles from his horse and leaps for the prince. Byleth follows, moving too slowly, aching from her wounds, desperate to move faster. The girl is cackling madly and stabs again, then once more.

Rodrigue jumps between the sword and Dimitri before the fourth blow can land. He catches the shortsword in his gut and grabs the girl’s shoulders, holding her fiercely in place. “Gah! P-Professor, do it now!”

Byleth moves without thinking. The Sword of the Creator lashes out like a whip, striking the girl to the ground. But the damage has already been done.

Crouched on the ground, Dimitri cradles Rodrigue as he bleeds out on the field. They exchange whispered words; Dimitri’s frantic and raw, Rodrigue’s fading and sure. As the Shield of Faerghus passes on, the prince bows his head and trembles, his expression hidden.

Out of respect, Byleth maintains her distance. She sheathes her sword with finality and turns back to survey her troops. Felix stands where she left him, hand still on the hilt of his blade, watching the scene with disbelief and utter dread in his eyes.

Thunder rumbles in the distance. Despite the heavy losses, the Kingdom Army must move before the storm comes.


	5. the bridge of myrddin

The Kingdom Army retreats to the Bridge of Myrddin to regroup. Gronder Field had taken much out of the troops, and they could not risk a full march back to the monastery.

Despite their exhaustion, despite all that had happened on the battlefield, no one seems to want sleep. It feels wrong to not stay vigil for those fallen. Felix had seen to his wounds, then vanished up to the battlements with scarcely a word. Ingrid moved to follow him; Sylvain’s strong hand on her shoulder convinced her otherwise. They all feel Rodrigue’s death and worry after Felix, but there is nothing to be done. The heir of House Fraldarius grieves in his own way, and they allow him his privacy.

The two sit with the remaining Blue Lions in the makeshift barracks, restless. Mercedes lights candles, her mouth moving with prayers meant only for the goddess to hear. Annette leans against Dedue with tears in her eyes. Ashe brings them stew and offers weak, half-hearted smiles.

Byleth sits in her cot, back to the wall, and fiddles with Jeralt’s ring in her pocket. The mood is dour, and she fears she will start weeping if she sits with the rest of her colleagues. There had been too many tears today; she did not need to give them any more.

The moon climbs in the sky, and slowly, the lanterns begin to dim as soldiers try to rest. The room falls into an uneasy sleep, but Byleth lies awake, listening to the soft rain on the ceiling and the distant roll of thunder. Her body is exhausted and hurt, but her brain refuses to stop thinking. 

Dimitri had not come to the barracks. In fact, she had not seen him at all since they had returned to the fort. Feeling unsettled, she silently slips out of the barracks and out towards the stables, clutching her thin coat around her.

Her hunch is correct — Dimitri stands there in partial armor, his heavy fur cloak on his shoulders, his head lowered. Though he had been stabbed several times earlier that day, the only sign of his discomfort is his stiff posture. He glances passively at her, as though expecting her.

“What do you want?” he asks flatly.

“Where are you going?” Byleth knows what his answer will be, but asks anyway. 

“It doesn’t concern you.”

She sighs, and steps out into the rain to see his face better. “Of course it does.”

“Get out of my way.” His words are barbed, but there is no fire behind them, not anymore. “Now.”

Byleth does not move. “You’re going to Enbarr.” It is not a question; it is a statement. He glares at her. Cautiously, she asks, “Do you really think this will appease the dead? A path straight to your own death?”

“Silence,” he growls. His voice cracks, still hoarse from the day’s battle. “You have no idea what you’re talking about. Death is the end — no matter how much lingering regret a person has, after death they are powerless. They cannot even wish for revenge, much less seek it out. Those burdens fall on those who are left behind.” 

He rests a hand on the stable door; his other is clenched into a fist. “And so I must continue down this path. I already told you as much! It is far too late to stop.”

There is a new timbre in his dialogue Byleth had not heard before: desperation lies beneath, illuminating the grief and fear and guilt that has plagued him for so long. He needs help and will never ask for it, not directly. She takes a tentative step closer to him and pushes the wet hair from her eyes to meet his gaze, but he looks away. “Dimitri, there must be another way,” she says softly.

“Do not waste your breath with some nonsense about how I should..._move on _with my life for their sake.” He steps back, recreating the distance between them. She is reminded distinctly of a wounded animal, hiding its injuries to suffer in solitude. “That is merely the logic of the living; it is meaningless. Those who died with lingering regret...they will not loose their hold on me so easily.”

He turns fully from her and lifts his face to the rain. The moonlight catches the rain as it pours down his hair, his face, his clothes, drenching him to the bone. A halo forms around him from the storm and the light. “But you seem to have all the answers, Professor. So tell me, please, tell me…How do I silence their desperate pleas? How do I…” His voice catches, suddenly fragile and wavering. “How do I save them?”

Byleth’s throat burns with words unsaid. What is there to say? What would make it better? Dimitri has been broken, _shattered _since she had found him those months ago. He had held his terrifying visage together with a web of hatred and revenge, speaking as Death’s servant to all he felt deserved a cruel end. 

But now the rain melts his armor away, leaving him raw and exposed as a man who had everything taken from him. His natural compassion and the weight of his royal position had eaten him alive, until he had no more left of himself to give away. She watches patiently, pondering her own response, as he finishes processing his thoughts.

“Ever since that day nine years ago, I have lived only to avenge the fallen. Even my time at the Officers Academy was all so that I could secure my revenge and clear away the regret of the dead. It was the only thing that kept me alive. My only reason to keep moving forward…”

Dimitri stops. He looks down at his feet, unwilling to face her. He waits for the answer to his question.

“You have suffered enough. You must forgive yourself,” Byleth says into the silence.

Weakly, he asks, “But then who — or what — should I live for?”

Byleth thinks about the Blue Lions, curled up near each other in the barracks. She thinks of Seteth and Flayn at the monastery, repairing what they can of the great campus with the scarce church personnel that had dared to come out of hiding. She thinks of days long past, of sparring with her students in the training grounds and pruning vines in the greenhouse.

She thinks of Dimitri’s speech at the Goddess Tower, and the way he had comforted her after Jeralt’s death. Hadn’t he said something so similar to her even then?

“You should...live for those around you.” She smiles faintly, though he does not see it. “Live for what you believe in.” 

“What I believe in…” Dimitri sighs, his shoulders slumping. “Rodrigue said the same thing. But is it possible…” He looks at his hands, gloveless for now, pale and riddled with callouses and scars. “I am a murderous monster. My hands are stained red. Could one such as I truly hope for such a life? As the sole survivor of that day, do I…” His voice breaks again, half a sob. “Do I have the right to live for myself?”

Byleth says nothing. She steps close to him and extends her hand palm up — an invitation to reconciliation. His eye darts to it, and she sees his expression soften. Carefully, cautiously, he places his in hers and grasps it gently. Byleth puts her other on top of his and squeezes.

“Your hands are so warm,” he whispers. Gone is the growl, the savage anger that had rippled from his throat for so long. He meets her eyes. “Have they always been?”

She cannot help herself; she pulls the prince into a hug, her arms wrapped around his neck. He stiffens at the sudden touch, frozen in the moment — before finally, he embraces her and pulls her flush against him, burying his face in her hair.

They are both trembling from the cold and soaked through with rain, but it is a long time before they part.


	6. cardinals' room

The oil lamps burn low in the cardinals’ room. Byleth sees the dancing shadows from the hallway as she approaches, and slows her walk. There are few people who would be up this late contemplating war strategy, and Byleth takes an educated guess as she rounds the corner. 

Dimitri stands staring at the map of Fódlan on the wall, half-sitting on the front table in the room. Even from behind, she can tell he is deep in thought. Purposefully she makes her steps heavy and presence known, so that when she speaks he will not be startled; even so, he does not turn when she comes to stand by his side.

"You know, Your Highness," she says gently, "staring at the war pieces isn't going to make them figure out your next move on their own."

He chuckles and folds his arms over his chest. "You never know. Perhaps it was worth trying." 

Byleth sits on the table next to him. If the war council were here, there would certainly be disapproving scowls thrown her way, but the hour is late and there is only the crown prince of Faerghus here to judge her. He says nothing of the sort, and continues to stare a hole in the map.

By the dim light, Byleth can see that Dimitri had come here from his chambers. He does not wear armor, only simple clothes and a swordbelt at his hip. His warm fur cloak is slung loosely over his shoulders. This was another night he had spent wandering the monastery, kept from sleep by his visions and nightmares. Though Byleth could not understand his troubles, she empathized — her own lack of sleep had brought her here at this night too, after all. 

The silence they sit in is comfortable, familiar. Despite the hour, Byleth quickly finds her mind going to the war efforts as she examines the pieces pinned into the map — there is a lion figure to represent them at Garreg Mach, and smaller pins that represent units and lords speckle the map. They hold forts and guard important routes all over Fódlan. Her eyes linger on Fhirdiad, their next target, which has a red Imperial piece lodged into its name. She is mentally reviewing what her colleagues had told her about the city defenses when Dimitri shakes his head, sighing.

"What troubles you?" 

"Forgive me,” he says, “I did not mean to interrupt your thoughts. I just...had a foolish question. One I don't think is appropriate to ask."

Byleth raises her eyebrows. "I was a professor once, you may recall. To a class with _Sylvain _no less. I think I have been asked every inappropriate question in the book."

"That is true." Almost sheepishly, his good eye turns back to the map. "I was going to ask...if you ever consider what Jeralt would think of all of this."

Byleth is quiet. “I...I do. Often, in fact, and even more so now that the war is turning back to reclaiming Faerghus. He was a Knight of Seiros, I'm sure he would have _opinions _on how we go about this."

"Right. I only knew him briefly, but he had a mind for strategy on the job."

"He was a kind soul, but a sharp captain. People underestimated him, even with his reputation...I think that's why we found so much success as mercenaries." She gestures vaguely to the cardinals’ room. "And why my experience translated so well to the academy. Most of what I told you all about strategy, let alone sword and weapon techniques, I learned from watching and fighting with him."

Dimitri snorts. "And were it not for you, they would expect us to learn this from books."

“I don't doubt that a book would be more eloquent than I," she murmurs. "I am hardly older than you all. I can only wonder at Lady Rhea's choice to take me on."

The prince sets his mouth in a firm line and turns to face her. The lantern hung on the wall is dimming as it runs out of fuel, and by the weak light she can only see the gleam of his eye and the highlight of his sharp jaw. "Professor. Even if Lady Rhea saw only half of what you have given us, she would have been in the right. Do not sell your efforts short."

Heat rises to her cheeks under the intensity of his gaze. His sincerity is what had drawn her to the Blue Lions in the first place, all those years ago. Now that they had shared that moment on the bridge, their hearts are bare to one another, and she feels their bond returning stronger, brighter. "You are too kind, Your Highness. I can only thank you all for being so gracious, and accepting such an unorthodox situation."

Dimitri inclines his head. "Stranger things have happened."

"Yes. They certainly have."

They lapse into their comfortable silence again, both absorbed in their own thoughts. Byleth had never been talkative to begin with, and they both had much to ponder — the last few months have been tumultuous, both in terms of the war and their own personal rumination. Prince Dimitri has accepted that he is both the boar and the man, reconciled to create a better whole; Byleth has found her foothold as a leader in the army, and every moment in the presence of comrades teaches her more about her own self.

The war efforts have shifted to reflect this. It is a war of many things, but they fight a war of justice now, rather than one of revenge and hate. There is hope for peace at the end, and there is no one else Byleth wants by her side to help bring the war to a close.

But first, Fhirdiad.

“Are you scared to go back?” she asks quietly, suddenly. Dimitri’s last visit to Fhirdiad had nearly ended in his execution at the hands of an Imperial coup; it was a place that did not exactly hold fond memories as of late.

“Why do you think I’m awake at such an hour?” His smile is crooked. “I...I am worried. I do not know if the people of Fhirdiad will accept me as their regent. Cornelia has turned the Kingdom into a Dukedom, and the people have been rebelling for this long...but that does not ensure I will still be accepted. I turned my back on them for all that time.” 

“But you’re going to face them anyway.”

“I am,” he affirms, almost too quickly. “I told you already; I will not live for the wishes of the dead. But...I am the last Blaiddyd, though my Crest lives on in distant relatives. I owe Faerghus much, and it does not deserve what this war has done to it. Even if they do not accept me, Fhirdiad deserves to be freed.”

Overwhelmed with emotion, Byleth can think of no response. Two months ago, getting two sentences about the liberation of Faerghus from him would be unheard of. She simply stares at the prince’s profile as he continues to mull over the state of his capital city. Her heart is filled with pride, with admiration, with light overflowing. Dimitri has come a long, long way.

He catches her eye. “What’s on your mind, Professor?”

“I just…” She smiles and looks at her hands in her lap. “I have missed talking to you so frankly.”

“Yes,” he answers softly, “I did too.”

Byleth barely suppresses a yawn, covering her mouth quickly. The hour is late, and they are both swamped with obligations — it is best that they both sleep, but she knows convincing Dimitri to abandon his post would be a futile effort. So stubbornly, foolishly, she stays up with him and continues their discussion. They stray back into the more familiar territory of strategy and defense tactics.

When she leans against Dimitri for support, their shoulders against each other, he does not pull away. They stay side-by-side until the break of dawn, when Dedue finds them and forcibly ushers them back to their respective chambers.


	7. fhirdiad

The festivities in Fhirdiad continue to rage into the night, the din of music and celebration echoing down the streets around the Blaiddyd palace. Carnage from the battle had been cleared hastily, the last remnants of Cornelia’s traitorous coup scrubbed clean. There is no place that embodies Faerghus more than its capital; their spirit is infectious, their passion clear.

Their king has returned, and they will support him with all they can.

Byleth steps away from the feast into a quiet street behind the palace, just high enough to look over the river behind the city. The smell of the water, crisp and clean, fills her lungs and clears her mind. Just a few hours ago, they were storming the walls under the cover of morning mist, and fought well into the afternoon. After five years of warfare, the royal family’s home is finally _theirs _again, and the Dukedom can transition back into a Kingdom. 

The celebration, while intoxicatingly joyful, is a bit much for someone who had just emerged from the throes of battle hours before. Byleth watches the light of the lanterns dance off the water and reflects.

Soft footsteps approach from behind. “It may be spring, but the nights are quite chilly here in Fhirdiad.” 

She turns; Dimitri strides towards her, his gait easy. He has tied his hair out of his face, and he smiles as he meets her eyes. Even at the academy, he had always carried himself upright, stiff and proper in all settings. But tonight, she sees his posture as effortless and graceful, held about him as though he already wears his crown upon his head. Perhaps it is an effect of the city’s reception to him earlier that day, or the sounds of celebration still raging in the background, but Byleth finds that it suits him in a way she had never admired before.

From the town square, a bout of sudden, raucous laughter reaches them as the band strikes up a new song. Dimitri shakes his head. “Still, our celebratory feast shows no sign of stopping. Have you grown weary of the festivities?”

Her body still aches from the fighting, and her head rings from the sound of celebration and the smell of alcohol. Mildly, she says instead, “I was going to ask you the same thing.” 

“It’s not that I have grown weary...more that I find it difficult to be around everyone at the moment.” His small smile fades into a more pensive, distant look. “I have just returned from visiting the graves of my loved ones. It had been a long while since I left flowers. I was always terribly afraid of going near there...but I could not stay away forever.”

“I...I would like to do so as well, before we leave Fhirdiad. If that is well with you,” Byleth adds hastily. 

Dimitri blinks in surprise. “Of course. The next time I go, I will let you know.”

He joins her at the railing, his hands absently gripping it. Having spent months at his side coordinating this war, Byleth senses his unease instantly and asks, “What troubles you?”

“I…” He frowns, and seems to reconsider his words. “You have taught me something important, Professor.”

“Your good sense of humor?” 

Softly, he chuckles, low in his throat. “You never let up, do you? No, what I am referring to is far more valuable. How should I put this...perhaps it is more accurate to say that you taught me how to live. 

“If you and I had not reunited on that fateful day, I am certain I would have died a fruitless death on the battlefield. I would have foolishly challenged a horde of foes and, in doing so, needlessly sacrificed the lives of my friends and myself. But now I have returned to my rightful place. I struggle with what to say, when I know well that words are not enough to express my gratitude.”

When Byleth looks to the prince, his attention is on the river, starlight in his hair. Months ago, in a courtyard so different from this one, he had threatened her life if she dared to stand in his way, his voice thick with intensity she rarely faced off the battlefield. Now he is calm, somber, his shoulders relaxed and posture open. His bright eye catches hers, and she feels heat rush to her face. She is suddenly aware of how close he stands, his shoulder nearly against hers. Though flushed, she holds his eye contact and wills her thoughts to slow. 

“You saved me from the darkness,” he continues, “and guided me back to the light. Thank you, Professor. With all that I am, I thank you.” And Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd, the next king of Faerghus and savior of Fhirdiad, bows deeply towards her, his hand placed sincerely over his heart.

Byleth, for all her stoicism, is overwhelmed. All she can do is smile her soft, faint smile and hope she does not look as flustered as she feels. “Your Highness,” she says at length, once she finds her voice again, “are you happy?” 

It is a question she had not considered in a long time. They did not have time for _happiness _in this war, not when so many things in Fódlan were so unhappy, and Dimitri’s flickering expression indicates that he feels the same. The pressures on their shoulders, though not identical, bear the same amount of weight.

“That...is a hard question to answer. I still do not believe I deserve happiness,” he admits. He looks to his hands and turns them about in the moonlight. “These hands of mine have taken so many lives: nobles and commons, adults...and children. Perhaps a day will come when I have finally atoned for my sins...but such a day is not possible until after the war is over.”

There is silence as they both absorb that thought. Noticing the low mood, odd against the backdrop of Fhirdiad’s celebration, Dimitri straightens up and clears his throat. “But I digress. For tonight, our only focus should be to bask in our victory. And after that, we must prepare for our battle with the Empire.”

But what the prince does, instead, is focus on all the tasks they must attend to in the morning. Without preamble, he rattles off his endless, detailed list of things to do, pacing as though they are back in the cardinals’ room. Byleth is generally able to follow his long strategy talks, but it has been a long day, and she finds herself tangling the threads when he begins to talk of the different territories, and all the merchants still loyal to them, and—

“Your Highness,” she interrupts. “That sounds like an awful lot of work for one day.”

“Just thinking about it makes my head spin,” he agrees, his smile wry. “There is much to do, but it is all critical work if we wish to stand a chance against the Empire.”

“You will face Edelgard soon enough.”

He sighs bitterly. “Yes, I am...well aware.” He draws the words out, reluctant to even speak them. “I believe we have spoken of this before. Everyone has something they cannot accept. As far as Edelgard, I am certain she will never be able to accept the Church of Seiros. She is looking to revolutionize the world — in her mind, for the better.”

Heart heavy, he turns back to look at Fhirdiad, its streets glowing warm and bright. “Even if she manages to birth a new world, it would be at the cost of…”

_Everything, _Byleth finishes for him internally, when his sentence trails off._It would cost everything._

“I wish to end this war through acceptance,” Dimitri says firmly. The light in his eyes is hard and clear, his passion reignited. “Just as my people accepted me, I wish dearly to accept her. But I fear…” 

“Your Highness.” Byleth steps towards him, interrupting for the second time that night. She could see the plans turning in his head, and did not wish for him to dwell on what they would need to do to defeat Edelgard — at least not tonight. Such grim planning could wait until another time. “Were we not supposed to focus on basking in victory? Did we not just reclaim Fhirdiad from an impossible siege?” 

Startled, he stares at her for a brief moment before breaking into a sheepish smile. “You are right, as ever,” he mumbles, rubbing the back of his neck. “Tonight is a night for good thoughts, present thoughts — not those of the looming future.”

“Do you remember the night of the ball?” she asks. “We had both slipped away then, as well. And met in the Goddess Tower to discuss the future.”

“Yes. I remember it well.” Dimitri closes his eyes, as though reliving it. “I...have never been one for crowds. Or public dancing. I suppose a good king must be ready for grandiose celebrations, ones even bigger than the ball and the party in Fhirdiad right now.”

Byleth leans back on her heels, considering, and says at length, “You _will _be a good king, Your Highness. Or...is it Your Majesty now?”

“Oh, no,” he says, too quickly, his eye snapping back open. “No, I will not be crowned until the war is over. I won’t be His Majesty until then, regardless of how much Gilbert may insist. The church and Faerghus both are in no state to appoint a king.”

“His Highness still, then.”

“What will it take for me to get you to call me by my given name, and only my given name?” he asks, almost desperately. There is teasing in his voice, but Byleth knows that Dimitri had spent all 23 years of his life begging his friends and colleagues to treat him as a peer, not a prince. “We have known each other a long while, and have been through enough together.”

“I will call you by your name when you call me by mine,” Byleth answers immediately. He blinks, and strokes his chin thoughtfully.

“Very well. That is only fair...Byleth. I cannot promise I won’t slip up; ‘Professor’ is very much habit at this point.”

She beams. “Likewise, Dimitri. Regardless, it is a pleasure to be reintroduced to you.”

When he laughs, it is like music to Byleth’s soft heart. They watch the river together, listening to Fhirdiad celebrate their king’s homecoming without him. Distantly, the band plays a tune Byleth is surprised to realizes she recognizes.

“Didn’t they play this song at the ball?”

“Hmm?” Dimitri tilts his head to listen. “I wouldn’t be surprised. Faerghus has many folk songs about Loog and all of his exploits. While they are not exactly church music, they are pretty catchy, you have to admit.”

Byleth considers this; it _is _catchy. The song is an up-tempo waltz, singing of Loog and the Maiden of Wind from what she can hear, and she can practically see the students dancing in her mind’s eye. They spin in steps of three with clumsy, untrained steps. She offers a hand to Dimitri. “We didn’t get to dance that night.”

Slowly, his gaze travels from her hand to her face, then back to her hand. The red blush of embarrassment begins to color his cheeks. “Come now, Pr—Byleth. You must have figured out by now that I am no dancer. I distinctly remember telling you as such before the White Heron Cup.”

“There is no one here but us,” she argues, her tone light. “And you were raised a prince. I’m certain you at least know how to sway in place. I’ve seen your footwork on the battlefield.”

“A battlefield is not a ballroom,” he snorts.

“In some ways, perhaps,” she rebuffs simply, and wiggles her fingers at him. With a sigh, he takes her hand — but there is no mistaking the flushed smile on his lips. 

The moment is broken as a messenger runs up to them from the alley. “Your Highness, I finally found you!” 

Dimitri turns immediately; his almost wistful expression had turned to concern in a heartbeat. “I am sorry for slipping away,” he says to the messenger, earnest. “Has something happened?" 

Something had indeed happened — Claude von Riegan had sent an express messenger from Derdriu, requesting the Kingdom’s immediate aid. Dutiful as ever, Dimitri invites Byleth to accompany him back to the palace to hear the message in full.

It is a reminder that they will not be free of the war until it is over. Loog’s song continues without them as Byleth follows the runner back to the Blaiddyd estate.


	8. faerghus united

As they prepare to leave Fhirdiad, the company watches the prince and the professor.

Spring thaws the capital city, both of its Imperial grip and the hoarfrost on the streets. Order is returning under the hand of its young soon-to-be king, who prepares to march to Enbarr in the coming months. He plans to thaw the rest of Fódlan from the Empire's grasp as well, and war requires resources and rest.

There are thousands of things that demand the vanguard's attention. There are strongholds to reconquer, lords to meet and fellow with, siege weapons and preparations to be made...and overseeing it all is the prince, his colleagues, and what remains of the church and its advisors. 

The most pressing of the thousand things is Claude von Riegan’s request. From Fhirdiad, it is a long road to Enbarr — they had planned to stop by Garreg Mach to replenish supplies before continuing south. Instead, they will need to divert east to save Claude (and, in turn, all of the Alliance) from the Imperial siege besetting sunny Derdriu. The morning after Fhirdiad’s reclamation, Crown Prince Dimitri announces that they will be departing within the week.

It is barely enough time to begin reparations across Faerghus. But there is no time to idle.

When she is not in the seemingly endless war councils, or poring over reports from the army’s strongholds in the south, or leading training seminars for her soldiers that are oddly reminiscent of her lectures as a professor, Byleth is wandering the halls of the Blaiddyd estate.

There is usually a member of the vanguard by her side. Dedue is content to stand in silence as they check on the plants the Imperial regime had left in the gardens together. (He himself had planted some of the foliage before leaving for the officers’ academy, after all.) Ingrid knows the name of every portrait on the wall, the story of every legendary weapon or relic displayed in the knights’ hall. Annette accompanies Byleth to the library, flitting from shelf to shelf with an ever-growing pile of literature to peruse during their stay. And the others all have something of Faerghus to show Byleth; they lead her around the city and display their oft-muted pride of their country.

But more often than not, it is Dimitri by her side as she explores. The estate is his childhood home, and there is not a single hiding spot he does not know, even after all these years. They rekindle their friendship over the warmth of his memories, which stir the haze that covers Byleth’s own upbringing. She wishes she could remember more, and she relishes what Dimitri tells her of Fhirdiad in his youth.

It is a common sight to see the prince and his former professor side by side during the fortnight in Fhirdiad. The company watches as they have conversations in every hall, hold arguments in every garden, and enjoy the silence on every balcony together. They share their burdens and their woes, their joys and comforts, and it draws them closer than ever. 

There are so few reprives from the war. And for the vanguard, seeing the prince and the professor so close after so much suffering on both of their behalves is one of them.

A few days before their departure, Byleth is reviewing reports over a cup of tea in the estate garden. Sylvain folds his long limbs into a chair next to her without asking. Carefree and smug as always, he puts an arm around the back of her chair and smiles at her. 

"Can I talk to you about something, Professor?"

Byleth throws him an amused glance from the corner of her eye. Patiently, she sets her quill down and reaches for her tea, now lukewarm from the crisp spring wind. "How can I help you, Sylvain?" 

"It's kinda long," he warns playfully, a glimmer in his eye. "I hope you're ready."

"Traditionally, people don't alert me when they are about to give me a monologue." Byleth smiles wanly. "Please, I'm here to listen." 

He takes a deep breath to ready himself. "Things have been different since the war started, I don't think I need to tell you that. Houses Gautier and Fraldarius were the backbones of Faerghus, and our good friend Emperor Edelgard made sure to target our defenses, since House Blaiddyd didn't exactly stand a chance. The regent Rufus was killed in the coup, and we thought His Highness was gone too, for _five years_. They were the last direct Blaiddyds, and Faerghus hasn't gone without a Blaiddyd since its founding." 

Byleth's fingers are tight around her teacup. She had not known the years that Dimitri was missing, and did not even think to wonder how the other Faerghus houses took his presumed death. Having both of King Lambert's successors die in a week must have been traumatizing. But Sylvain's tone is light, conversational; that is how it always was with him. He was amiable, regardless of the topic at hand, unless the talk turned to Crests. 

"And then he wasn't dead anymore," he continues, shrugging, "but he kind of was? And we all learned that Felix was right about him that whole time. We knew Dimitri was different after his father and Glenn died — I mean, who wouldn't be? — but we never saw his dark side in full force until we returned to the monastery. He apologized to us and acts his princely self again and all, but sometimes I _still _feel like I need to tread lightly around him."

"I know the feeling," Byleth says honestly, quietly. Sylvain is looking off into the distance now, his brow knit. Of all the Blue Lions, he was among the easiest to read, but there is a depth in him that Byleth still feels she cannot reach. 

"But...everything is _hopeful _now." Sylvain gestures grandly at the garden around them, at the bustle of the estate as soldiers go about their business. "We're still the underdogs in this war, but we stand a fighting chance now. If you hadn't stopped His Highness from his blind charge into Enbarr, we'd all be six feet under by now."

"Please. Anyone would have done the same." She is suddenly embarrassed. Had the company heard her talk with Dimitri that night at Myrddin, where they had reconciled in the rain? Byleth fights to keep the blush from her cheeks.

The look he gives her is even, measured. "That brings me to what I wanted to talk to you about, Prof. It's really good to see His Highness being, well, His Highness again, both as his friend and someone who will serve under him someday. I'd like to say it was the stunning force of our personalities and friendship bringing him back from the dark, and it certainlyhelped, but...well..."

"Well?"

"Well, we spend all day in war councils," Sylvain says. He leans back in the chair and puts his hands behind his head, thinking of how best to say his next few sentences. "And the advisors are great. Seteth and Gilbert have those _voices _that make you just wanna listen, y'know? But you...have you seen the way Dimitri looks at you when you speak up?" 

Byleth regards him reproachfully. "I can't say that I have."

"I've been in love a lot before, Professor," he says frankly, "and that's the look of a man in love. And I'm not as good at reading you, but something tells me your feelings are a little more than mutual."

Her attempts at hiding her blush are futile; she can feel her whole face heating up. Calmly, she takes a sip of tea (now ice cold and far too sweet) and meets Sylvain's eyes, schooling her face into as neutral an expression she can. "Sylvain," she scolds lightly, "you don't think you're reading too far into this?" 

"C'mon Professor," he scoffs, "do you think you'd be asking that if you were denying it? You mean to tell me you two spend all day joined at the hip, looking deep into each other’s eyes, and you don't _ever _think about kissing him? Even a little?" 

She is stunned into silence. Sylvain laughs, not unkindly, and puts a comforting hand over hers. "Look. I'm not here to tell you if it's a good idea to act on your feelings, or if they'll help the war effort or morale or whatever. I’m not qualified to tell you anything about that. I just think..." He looks wistfully away, a smile tugging at his lips. "I think you two deserve happiness, whatever form it may take. And you've got someone cheering you on if either of you decide to make moves. That's all I wanted to say."

He squeezes her hand, stands up, and stretches luxuriously like a cat that had been lying for too long. Byleth stands as well, hastily, before he can walk away. "Sylvain, wait."

Obediently, he turns. Byleth stands on her toes and kisses his cheek gently, taking care not to linger. "Thank you," she murmurs. "You are much more thoughtful than anyone gives you credit for. I value your insight immensely."

For a split second, he looks like he might cry. They are both surprised by this reaction, it seems — Sylvain takes a few seconds to blink rapidly before giving her another winning smile. "Thank _you_, Professor." He bows slightly before leaving to return to his duties.

Byleth returns to her seat with a sigh. The dregs at the bottom of her cup seem so unappealing, and the rest of the pot of tea is probably cold and undrinkable, as well.

* * *

As strange as it feels to admit, the war comes together. 

Fhirdiad is safe. Faerghus remembers itself, and soldiers flock to the monastery to rally under the Holy Kingdom’s banners. The vanguard rushes to Derdriu and saves Claude von Riegan from an early death. With a wink and a laugh, he leaves them with his Hero’s Relic, the keys to the Alliance, and warmth in their hearts before he vanishes on some journey eastward. 

They secure the Gloucester, Bergleiz, and Aegir territories. They lay down the groundwork for war reparations. They feel the tides of the battle turn under their feet, heaving and lurching like the sea beneath an azure moon. 

They meet with Edelgard, and Dimitri promises an oath upon a dagger. They determine there is no peaceful path left to walk to the end. There is only blood, and war, and fighting. 

At long last, they march south, to Enbarr. All of Fódlan holds its breath.


	9. enbarr

Dimitri pulls the knife out of his shoulder and drops it to the ground. He turns from the throne and limps to the exit, Areadbhar loose in his hand.

Byleth glances back at him, and catches sight of Edelgard — smaller in death, slumped against her throne. She swallows back her regret. There are so many things to feel in this moment, Byleth cannot focus on a single one. Should she be glad the war is over? Mournful that they could not plead with Edelgard for peace? Byleth settles on worry as Dimitri stops before the palace’s doors, flinching at the sunlight, and turns back to the throne. The hurt written in his eye is not from his wound.

Quickly, Byleth catches his hand, her fingers loose in his. She pulls him gently back towards the door, towards the streets of the city, towards the end of the war. He nods absently, his mind elsewhere, and allows her to lead. Step by step, side by side, they walk into the light.

Emperor Edelgard had stabbed Prince Dimitri with her dagger when he had offered her a hand of peace. It was her last act in the war, and he had no choice but to stab in retaliation. The war has ended.

Dimitri staggers as they move, inhaling sharply. Dutifully and immediately, Byleth pulls his arm over her shoulders and holds him upright with what remains of her strength. Blood drips down his armor and stains his footsteps. He should not have pulled the dagger out, as it would have held the wound shut...but she empathizes with his impulse. She would not have wanted that steel in her body any longer, either.

His breathing is rough and uneven. “It’s over,” he manages to say. The afternoon sun is blinding off of Enbarr’s canal, so bright she can barely see the soldiers that wait for them on the other side of the bridge. Their clamoring almost drowns out his low, pain-labored voice.

“It’s over,” Byleth repeats, her words a whisper. They are both in pain from their injuries and _exhausted, _so exhausted in so many ways, but when they meet each other’s eyes, the feeling is electric. Relief finally begins to set in.

_It’s over. It’s finally over._

A cheer erupts from the army as they emerge, bloody and beaten. In spite of it all, Byleth grins ear to ear; Dimitri, leaning heavily against her, does what he can to raise Areadbhar triumphantly. The crowd does not surge forward to meet them, though it seems like they seriously consider it — Ashe, Ingrid, and Sylvain had strategically parked their wyvern, pegasus, and horse to keep the troops from charging at the throne room. Only Dedue and Mercedes rush to them, to fuss over their wounds and well-being.

A haphazard medical tent is set up outside the opera house. Dimitri and Byleth are ushered in by a swarm of stressed clerics, who deftly see to their wounds. Adamant, Byleth stays by Dimitri’s side, watching with an attentive eye as they peel off his armor to dress his shoulder wound. She is in no better shape — Hubert had burned her side badly before they charged the throne room, and she had sustained several hard hits from the Empire’s beasts — but she insists that Dimitri is treated first.

At some point in the midst of their medical care, Dimitri reaches over to her cot with his uninjured arm and takes Byleth’s hand. She grips it tightly, anxious and in pain, and he holds her steady.

The next few hours are a blur. Despite the medics’ insistence that their patients needed rest, Dimitri still has a kingdom to run. They are visited by messengers and knights, given reports of strongholds surrendering and lords swearing fealty. He gives orders in a haze of fatigue, and though Byleth can feel her grip on strategy and reason slipping away as well, she offers all the council she can.

The sun is setting by the time there is finally quiet. The clerics leave them to rest, with pointed instructions to _stay put and don’t move_, and a hush falls across the tent. Byleth releases a heavy, tense sigh. Her prince is still holding her hand, though they are in separate cots. He looks to her with a meager smile, but he, too, is spent.

“Dimitri,” she asks quietly, “are you alright?”

It is a deceptively complex question. Dimitri furrows his brow, directing his stern look to the dark ceiling of the tent. His thumb rubs circles on the back of her hand, an absent gesture. “I...I think I will be. Wounds heal. Fódlan will recover. But it hurts me the most to know that in the end, she would not walk a path of peace. I think she wanted me to kill her, if only to end the war.”

“Edelgard was always smart,” Byleth murmurs.

“Yes. History would not treat her kindly, should she have taken my hand.”

“I’m sorry, Dimitri. I’m sorry it turned out this way.”

He squeezes her hand and says nothing in response. A long, thoughtful pause follows before he says, “I will hear the voices of the dead for the rest of my life, I think. I had thought, just months ago, that taking her head would relieve me of this burden. Now I am beyond certain the way to atone is to lead a world to be proud of — a world they would be proud of. My father, Glenn, Rodrigue...all those people I watched die, and all those I killed...and Edelgard, even if our views did not align.”

Carefully, Byleth sits herself up and braces herself against the wall behind her. He shifts closer on his cot without even thinking, shifting his arm to more comfortably keep their hands together. “I am glad to hear it, Dimitri. All of Fódlan will be glad to hear it.” Pride warms her chest, even as the night grows chilly.

“Now,” he continues, his tone bright despite the day’s events. “I must ask: are _you _alright, Professor?”

_Wounds heal. Fódlan will recover. Faerghus has a new king. _“I think I will be,” she repeats. “With you and the Lions by my side? I will be.”

Like clockwork, their friends choose that moment to burst into their tent. Dedue and Ingrid wrestle in crates and barrels to serve as makeshift seats as Ashe and Mercedes bring in bowls of food squirreled away from the army’s temporary mess hall. Sylvain is the last to enter, following a disgruntled Felix and giddy Annette with arms full of bottles of alcohol.

“The war is over!” he announces unnecessarily. “And it is finally time to _relax._"

“For the record, Your Highness, Professor,” Ingrid clarifies, as she claims a corner barrel, “we know you have a lot of work to do. We know relaxing isn’t exactly in either of your natures. But Sylvain is, well, Sylvain.”

“For better or for worse,” Mercedes adds with a knowing smile. 

“For worse.” Felix glares at his friend, and snatches a bottle of honey mead from Sylvain’s arms before it can fall to the ground. “Definitely for worse.”

As they clamber into the small tent, Byleth is made aware of how _ridiculous _she and Dimitri must look. She is wrapped in his heavy fur cloak like it is a blanket. It pools around her, and she looks comically small beneath its mantle. Dimitri wears only the bottom half of his plate armor; the medics had removed his cuirass, pauldrons, and gauntlets, leaving him in just his torn, bloodied, and bandaged undershirt. They are not in the same cot, but theirs have been pushed so close together they might as well be. Areadbhar and the Sword of the Creator are propped lazily against a tent pole, stacked with their generic weapons as though they _aren’t_irreplaceable artifacts. Ashe nearly knocks them both over when he swings around to deliver some stew to Annette, there is so little room in the tent to maneuver.

This little affair is a small summary of everything that has kept Byleth sane during this war. It is casual, it is cheerful, and it is a little chaotic. She would never have it any other way. 

_The war is over, _she thinks to herself, looking from face to grinning face, _and they are all here._

“Well,” Sylvain says, once everyone is settled with a bowl of stew, “we did the damn thing. We ended a war.”

Annette laughs, releasing some of her nervous tension, and slumps against Felix’s shoulder. “We ended a war!” she repeats in disbelief. “It’s been so long, it doesn’t feel real.”

“Your Highness, Professor” Dedue asks, “how do you feel?”

Dimitri has said little since the vanguard dropped in, and Byleth instinctively looks to him for his answer first. He simply smiles and looks down, shaking his head.

“I feel similarly, Annette. It doesn’t feel real.” He sets his bowl, already empty, on a crate nearby. “The fighting in the capital was brutal, and I am truly grateful to have such talented, brave people by my side. You are all heroes, I hope you know.” 

The air quiets. A prince to his core, Dimitri had always had a talent for public speaking, and the group can feel a speech brewing in the weight of his words. Even Felix settles in, popping open the bottle of honey mead. Wordlessly, without looking at his friend, Sylvain hands him a glass to fill.

“The world has not seen a war like this in centuries,” Dimitri continues, “and we stand at the end, while the whole of the continent watches. We have seen much in our years — and each of you have overcome your challenges. You have stood by my side through so much, while I was...more animal than man, bloodthirsty for revenge. I am proud to have fought by your side, and I will be _proud _to be your king.”

Ingrid raises a glass. “It is always an honor to fight for good, Your Highness.”

“Hear!” Ashe grins, raising his glass as well. One by one, they each raise a toast, even Felix, who meets Dimitri’s eyes with a wordless challenge.

Byleth is the last. Her free hand — Dimitri grips the other tightly, anxiously — lifts her glass of mead to the air, towards her friends. “To Fódlan,” she says, “and to us.”

The group erupts into cheers. They clink their glasses together and drink, and the merriment begins in earnest. The mead is sweet on her tongue and warm in her gut, and the company is unbeatable. Dimitri finally releases her hand to drink as well, as his other arm is wounded, but whenever she catches his eye, he beams at her. She returns it easily, every time, and they laugh the night away.

The war is over. They celebrate into the night, and when the morning comes, the heroes meet it together.


	10. garreg mach monastery

The Archbishop and the King of Faerghus do a lot of traveling. 

Their bases are in their respective strongholds — Garreg Mach and Fhirdiad — but Fódlan is a big place, and it feels as though they are on the road more often than not. The Archbishop travels to Enbarr to see to the city’s reconstruction and have fellowship with the families of the Empire most affected by the war. The King goes through the former Alliance territories to Derdriu, ensuring peace in the eastern region while Claude von Riegan is still at large. The King cannot rule from his corner in the north even with the assistance of his lords, anymore so than the Archbishop can oversee the church’s restoration efforts from a single stronghold in the mountains.

But their most frequent trips are between the monastery and the Faerghus capital. Both leaders convene often to discuss matters of state and church. When they meet for official business, they are the picture of noble grace and professionalism — their rapport, though amiable, would never hint at their marriage. But outside of the audience chambers, with regalia shed and titles laid aside, they are a lovesick young couple. Their business frequently keeps them a continent apart, and they relish every private moment they have in the same location.

A year and a half after the fighting ends, just in time for the first new class of Garreg Mach’s Officers’ Academy to graduate, the King comes to the monastery in the cover of night.

He had ridden ahead of his convoy, accompanied only by his vassal. Under the blue lion banner of the Kingdom, the gatekeeper of Garreg Mach waves in the King’s midnight ride and sees their horses into the stable himself. The Duscan vassal heads into the monastery’s small town to visit a homely inn run by a former archer. The King goes to the third floor of the monastery, footsteps silent, excitement and longing in his heart. Though woken from her slumber, the Archbishop is delighted to find her husband arriving a few hours earlier than expected, and gladly invites him into her chambers.

Dawn breaks gently through the linen curtains. They had both slept through the night, a rarity — but Byleth finds it is difficult to sleep poorly in Dimitri’s arms. She finds his face, is glad to see he is still dozing, and pulls herself closer into his embrace. As he stirs he sighs, deep and content.

“It is a shame,” he murmurs, voice thick with sleep, “that we have to get up and lead a continent. I would stay here forever if I could.”

Absently, her thumb traces the rough line of a scar on his back. “We could leave them waiting,” she suggests. “Can they not do without us for another couple of hours?” 

He laughs softly. “We have both fought wars, yet I fear that neither of us are brave enough to do such a thing.” 

Byleth concedes the point. Her king is right — she wouldn’t dare show up late to an appointment, nor would he. They enjoy the time they have, curled up under the warm blankets, content in the thoughtful silence.

“Do you want to see my favorite part of staying in the monastery?” Byleth asks at length. She sits up, the blanket around her shoulders. “I would spend all my nights in Fhirdiad with you if I could, but...there are nice things about living up here, as well.” 

Dimitri, still stubbornly lying down, raises a curious eyebrow. “Of course, my beloved.” She makes a show of pulling him out of bed, tugging at his arm as he slowly rises.

They dress to move out onto the balcony, in underclothes and light fabrics that no one sees beneath the regal dress they both don day-to-day. It is cold that morning; Dimitri invites her to join him under his fur coat when they reach the balustrade. The day has just begun, but the staff and faculty are beginning their daily rituals. The sky is pale in its morning newness. 

The king rests his hands on the railing. His left hand, the one made stiff from Edelgard’s dagger, the one wearing his wedding ring, flexes absently to work feeling back into his digits. The injury is a small, daily reminder of what the war had cost, though he claims it does not bother him outside of mild discomfort on rainy days. Byleth laces her fingers through his and holds him steady all the same.

“Just listen,” she says. 

Obediently, Dimitri closes his eye, lifting his face to the rising sun. His wife is granted a rare, raw look at him. He has not yet donned his eyepatch, and his armor makes his silhouette imposing and impressive; without those things, he is smaller and gentler, bearing his scars openly. The gilded rays of morning light catch the sharp lines of his fine features and turn his tousled hair to spun gold. 

Briefly, Byleth is struck by how _beautiful _he is. Dimitri has overcome so much, and this last year of peace and recovery have been kind to him.

Beaming, she closes her eyes to listen to the sounds of the monastery with him.

In the distance, the cavalry is on their morning route around the monastery, the clopping of hooves rhythmic against the cobblestone ground. Early-rising students make their way to the dining hall, their chatter and laughter a halo over the clatter of dishes. A floor below, the sound of Manuela and Hanneman bickering is familiar — this has been an almost constant sound since they had returned to their faculty positions at the academy. Above them, riding the slow breezes among the clouds, pegasi and wyvern circle the tall towers, the beat of their wings timed and powerful as they use the air to their advantage. And surrounding it all in an ethereal glow is the choir practice that morning, the hymns gliding through the halls of the monastery and hallowing the grounds with their music. 

Together, the sounds are warm and bright. Together, the sounds are the sounds of _home._

Dimitri opens his eye and smiles his faint smile. “It’s so..._alive_.”

“Yes,” she says quietly. Pride fills her chest to overflowing. “After so much fighting...it feels like there is hope here. And I am grateful to hear it from here every day.”

She leans against her husband, who puts his arm around her shoulders and squeezes her tight. When he kisses her, it is tender and soft, but she feels the smile against her lips and cannot help but grin back. They stay there for as long as they dare, listening to Garreg Mach come to life around them.

“Well then, my lion,” Byleth finally says, untangling herself from his cloak. The morning mist has finally begun to fade. “Shall we?”

He inclines his head politely, a twinkle in his eye, and offers his arm. She hooks hers through it, and they walk leisurely back to her chambers to prepare for the day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello! if you made it this far, thank you for reading!
> 
> my byleth is named rook, and she is very dear to my heart. i hope you have enjoyed her journey with her beautiful, terrible, sad prince — it was a delight to experience, and then re-experience while writing this. dimitri's arc (and this whole dang game) means a lot to me, and i think his story with byleth is worth exploring time and time again.
> 
> i hope you have enjoyed this — thank you again!


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